


Upon Further Investigation

by OtakuElf



Series: Biological Clock [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/F, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:14:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24689698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OtakuElf/pseuds/OtakuElf
Summary: Mycroft requests John's presence at the Diogenes.
Relationships: Irene Adler/Kate (Sherlock), John Watson & Original Female Characters, John Watson & Original Male Characters, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes & Original Female Characters, Sherlock Holmes & original male characters, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Biological Clock [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/62053
Comments: 9
Kudos: 17





	1. Notification

**Author's Note:**

> I started this story with Articulate, but this part really is its own separate story. So I have chopped the last two chapters from Articulate, and started afresh here. Thank you to those of you reading!

John Watson had not thought it would be anything other than a normal day. Considering that a normal day could include explosions, rampaging about the house in pursuit of a naked child, or three now, or spouse for that matter - for not particularly fun reasons, or an odd individual meeting with them on the street to seek out their help, normal was relative.

He’d just stopped at the Tesco’s for milk (and some things never do change, - with three children they would always run out), when a sparkling clean black vehicle had pulled up. His mobile rang, the unlisted number familiar enough, and the voice of family speaking, “Get into the car, John.” Then as an obvious afterthought, “Please.”

Sliding along the leather seat, John called, “‘Morning, Declan,” toward the driver beyond the smoked glass. The communicating window to the driver cracked a bit, “Morning, Dr. Watson,” before sliding home. Dr. John Watson pulled out his mobile and texted, “Being kidnapped by your brother. Will you be there? JW.”

He received an instant response, “What does Mycroft want? Did you get the milk? SH”

“No idea. I have the milk - it’s hostage as well. JW” Leaning forward he tapped on the window, and when it was opened asked, “I have a gallon of milk here, Declan. Should I take that in with?”

“I’ll take care it doesn’t spoil, Dr. Watson,” answered Mycroft’s driver.

His mobile alerted him to a returning text. “You speak as though the milk would be a more important hostage. I assure you that it is not. SH”

It was followed almost immediately by another text. “I trust you. SH”

Well. As if that did not set off all manner of foreboding as Declan pulled the ominous black car neatly into the unloading zone in front of the Diogenes club. John stepped out, minus the plastic jug of 2%, greeted the doorman, and walked up the steps into the foyer of the Diogenes.

The two story entryway echoed with his footsteps, and the tiny sounds of the concierge behind the wooden desk. No speech. They were waiting for him, and a servitor lead him up the polished marble stairs to the rooms Mycroft Holmes most often used for business meetings outside of his office.

A table was laid with tea and a variety of pastries. Mycroft’s slim figure was outlined at the enormous windows overlooking the street. John removed his windcheater to give to the servitor and commented, “I thought it was dangerous to stand in a window like that. In all the movies that’s where some unsuspecting government employee stands before being shot by a high powered rifle.”

The look Mycroft gave him as he joined John at the table was severe. “Fiction, John, and poor planning.” Gesturing for John to be seated, Mycroft joined him with an equally severe cup of plain Oolong. “How are the children?”

John hid his smile behind a mouthful of strong tea with milk. “Sherlock and Siger have begun reading music together. Sherlock will sit with Siger on his lap, holding a manuscript, and they’ll hum the notes together on each line. Ross and Miri just chew on their teething toys and ignore them.”

“You’re still waiting for Siger to turn three before starting him on the violin?” Mycroft asked with all the body language of actual interest.

“Yeah, I think that gives him something to look forward to. And it’s not like we’re keeping him from making music before that. Obviously. He sings - makes up little songs - in his bed at night, and in the morning before the rest of us get up. So long as he doesn’t wake up the girls, we told him it was fine.” John gave his brother-in-law full attention, “What is it that you need, Mycroft?”

Mycroft set the half empty teacup on a side table. “We have tracked down a link to the men behind your kidnapping last year.”

“And the reason Sherlock is not here is?” John asked politely.

“The link,” Mycroft told him, “is Irene Adler.”

There was a moment of silence so heavy that John could feel it on his shoulders. “Again, I ask, why isn’t Sherlock here? Why are you talking to me instead of your brother?”

Mycroft was reading him. A flick of the eye as he took in body language, John’s tone of voice, his phrasing. “You know that she is alive. Sherlock must have told you. We would like you to speak to her. As our agent. Find out names, and any more information that you can obtain about Moriarty’s supposed successors.”

“She’s in London?” John asked.

“Canada. Vancouver. Your expenses would be paid. Business class, of course. Just you. Not Sherlock.”

“Why do you think that Irene Adler would talk to me? About anything, much less about Moriarty’s dealings?” John demanded.

“Do you really think it would be wise to expose Sherlock to Adler again?” Mycroft Holmes asked blandly. “Really, John, I thought you would jump at the chance to keep them apart.”

John Watson’s mouth opened to reply to that, then snapped shut. It was a moment before he gave an answer. “I will consider it.”

“Do,” responded the calm representative of the British Government, “and let me know as soon as possible.”

The look John gave him was not friendly, nor was it fraternal. Gulping down the last of his tea, the former Captain Watson took his leave with the snap of a crisp march.  
Chapter Management

Edit Chapter 

Chapter 9: John goes home.  
Summary:

Mycroft has found a clue.

Chapter Text

John Watson had not thought it would be anything other than ordinary at home. And yet, he wasn't certain what to expect.

When John climbed out of the car at two hundred twenty one b, Baker Street, after he thanked Declan, he took a moment to observe.

The door remained black, the brass knocker just a hint off-kilter. No notice in sight told of the presence of the Holmes-Watson Agency. There was noise next door from Mrs. Turner’s, where she was having the upstairs flat re-plastered.

Hoisting the jug of milk, he stepped firmly from the curb and up to the doorway, juggling a ring of keys to open the locks. The milk stayed in the foyer, perched on the oak buffet against the wall, while he checked in with Alice Brown in the office downstairs. Bert was there, stretched out on the office couch reading a spy novel, and generally keeping the office manager company as she updated their online schedule. John then knocked gently on Mrs. Hudson’s door for a moment to chat. When he could not put it off any longer, he climbed the wooden stairs to home.

A year ago Siger would have been waiting at the baby-gate. Miri sat there now, and gave a soft “coo” of greeting.

“How’s my girl?” John asked her as he unfastened the gate to sweep the baby into his free arm.

When he walked through the open doorway into the flat, Sherlock had Ross in her high chair, Siger in his booster seat up at the table, and dinner - takeout of course - ready to be served. John seated Miranda, and sat himself opposite of Sherlock at the table. They talked of general items, including Siger in the conversation, and Miranda and Rosalind - who had already been fed - though the babies did not respond over much. They were more interested in playing with the bits of soft, steamed veg that Sherlock had give them to experiment with.

After dinner, nothing was said. Sherlock continued to read to Siger. Ross was lolling on her stomach on Harry’s much used afghan.

For a wonder, there was no call from Lestrade. Bert remained downstairs. Alice Brown closed up the office and went home for the night. The children were fed, bathed, and put to bed after a fairly short and easily read book.

John followed the tall, slender figure as the man clattered down the stairs ahead of him.

Still no question, no comment. Sherlock sank into his chair, leaning back, he crossed his legs, steepled long fingers before his face and stared at John, who was holding his laptop like a shield in front of him. The silence became deafening.

John, who had been rehearsing the words in his head all evening opened his mouth to blurt out something, anything. No words came.

Sherlock, true to his self-description from so long ago, said nothing. He did, however, continue to observe his spouse.

“I feel that you already know what I am going to say,” John said helplessly.

With a tilt of that dark curled head, his partner replied, “Possibly,” then lapsed back into silence.

In the absence of conversation, the sounds of the street seemed magnified - cars traveling Baker Street, passers-by chattering on the pavement, and a siren in the distance. Suddenly, John gave a snort. A giggle broke loose, and the blond doctor leaned back in his chair and laughed until he was out of breath.

“Irene Adler is the link. Mycroft wants me to go to Canada and talk to her,” came out finally.

Sherlock’s focus on John vanished, and John knew the man was in his Mind Palace. There was time for John to give a sigh, hoist himself out of the chair, and fix two mugs of tea - one milky, one disgustingly sweet.

When Sherlock continued the conversation his own tea was cold. John was on his second cup and working his way through a queue of emails. “When do you leave?”

“Why do you think I’m going? I have responsibilities here. There’s Siger, and Miranda and Ross. There’s the business. My shifts at the surgery.” Even as he spoke, John knew his partner was reading the words through whatever filter existed in the Mind Palace, adding that information to observations garnered from stance, tone of voice, twinges and muscular spasms and tics in his too often open face. John could tell when the assessment was finished.

Sherlock Holmes gave him a nod of agreement just as a sleepy wail floated down the stairs and echoed through the monitor. Standing, and without a backward glance at John, he ascended the stairs quietly. John watched him exit the sitting room, and said nothing.

“John?” Came the baritone form the stop of the steps. “I trust you.” Then the click of the door shutting behind him. John could hear him tending to Miranda over the monitor.

Damnation.

Doctor John Watson went into their bedroom to pack his flight bag.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What does Sherlock know?

When John climbed out of the car at two hundred twenty one b, Baker Street, after he thanked Declan, he took a moment to observe.

The door remained black, the brass knocker just a hint off-kilter. No notice in sight told of the presence of the Holmes-Watson Agency. There was noise next door from Mrs. Turner’s, where she was having the upstairs flat re-plastered.

Hoisting the jug of milk, he stepped firmly from the curb and up to the doorway, juggling a ring of keys to open the locks. The milk stayed in the foyer, perched on the oak buffet against the wall, while he checked in with Alice Brown in the office downstairs. Bert was there, stretched out on the office couch reading a spy novel, and generally keeping the office manager company as she updated their online schedule. John then knocked gently on Mrs. Hudson’s door for a moment to chat. When he could not put it off any longer, he climbed the wooden stairs to home.

A year ago Siger would have been waiting at the baby-gate. Miri sat there now, and gave a soft “coo” of greeting.

“How’s my girl?” John asked her as he unfastened the gate to sweep the baby into his free arm.

When he walked through the open doorway into the flat, Sherlock had Ross in her high chair, Siger in his booster seat up at the table, and dinner - takeout of course - ready to be served. John seated Miranda, and sat himself opposite of Sherlock at the table. They talked of general items, including Siger in the conversation, and Miranda and Rosalind - who had already been fed - though the babies did not respond over much. They were more interested in playing with the bits of soft, steamed veg that Sherlock had give them to experiment with.

After dinner, nothing was said. Sherlock continued to read to Siger. Ross was lolling on her stomach on Harry’s much used afghan.  
For a wonder, there was no call from Lestrade. Bert remained downstairs. Alice Brown closed up the office and went home for the night. The children were fed, bathed, and put to bed after a fairly short and easily read book. 

John followed the tall, slender figure as the man clattered down the stairs ahead of him.

Still no question, no comment. Sherlock sank into his chair, leaning back, he crossed his legs, steepled long fingers before his face and stared at John, who was holding his laptop like a shield in front of him. The silence became deafening.

John, who had been rehearsing the words in his head all evening opened his mouth to blurt out something, anything. No words came.

Sherlock, true to his self-description from so long ago, said nothing. He did, however, continue to observe his spouse.

“I feel that you already know what I am going to say,” John said helplessly.

With a tilt of that dark curled head, his partner replied, “Possibly,” then lapsed back into silence.

In the absence of conversation, the sounds of the street seemed magnified - cars traveling Baker Street, passers-by chattering on the pavement, and a siren in the distance. Suddenly, John gave a snort. A giggle broke loose, and the blond doctor leaned back in his chair and laughed until he was out of breath.

“Irene Adler is the link. Mycroft wants me to go to Canada and talk to her,” came out finally.

Sherlock’s focus on John vanished, and John knew the man was in his Mind Palace. There was time for John to give a sigh, hoist himself out of the chair, and fix two mugs of tea - one milky, one disgustingly sweet.

When Sherlock continued the conversation his own tea was cold. John was on his second cup and working his way through a queue of emails. “When do you leave?”

“Why do you think I’m going? I have responsibilities here. There’s Siger, and Miranda and Ross. There’s the business. My shifts at the surgery.” Even as he spoke, John knew his partner was reading the words through whatever filter existed in the Mind Palace, adding that information to observations garnered from stance, tone of voice, twinges and muscular spasms and tics in his too often open face. John could tell when the assessment was finished.

Sherlock Holmes gave him a nod of agreement just as a sleepy wail floated down the stairs and echoed through the monitor. Standing, and without a backward glance at John, he ascended the stairs quietly. John watched him exit the sitting room, and said nothing.

“John?” Came the baritone form the stop of the steps. “I trust you.” Then the click of the door shutting behind him. John could hear him tending to Miranda over the monitor. 

Damnation.

Doctor John Watson went into their bedroom to pack his flight bag.


	3. Heathrow to Winnipeg

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's flight has some interesting people on it. Or interested.

John Watson was not a large man. Even so, airplanes (and he was flying first class courtesy of Mycroft Holmes) were getting more cramped. If he’d have been flying with his partner, their children, and the au pair (with whom they had only flown once, but that was quite enough. Thankyouverymuch), this “simple trip” would have been incredibly complicated. Imagining Sherlock Holmes squeezed in beside him - long legs trapped against the backward leaning seat of the woman in front of John, brought a smirk to his lips, and distracted him for a few moments. 

In the wait before takeoff, John took the time to examine his fellow travelers. Woman in front of him, traveling with her small dog. Her complaints and whinging to the flight attendant was yappier than the puppy. John felt a measure of sympathy for the ball of fluff, quietly frightened as his carrier was wedged into the seat by the window. At least it wasn’t stowed in the hold. John had read about animal deaths in the unheated, unpressurized depths of air transport.

Business suits in the seats behind and cattycorner. John had no doubt that Sherlock would have been able to tell him exactly what type of businesses. John could see that not all of those suits were bespoke, and at least one of them was fairly well worn. He did see symptoms of hypertension, one man under the influence, and male pattern baldness.

Next to John - across the center - were a family. Two female adults and a small person. The girl was probably about eight or nine years old. She handled the process of luggage and seating with the air of experience, and was reading something from her iPad. Her adults were chatting quietly, though one was clutching at her armrest.

There would be no one sitting next to him. John had the entire row on this side. Mycroft offered that as a perquisite of making this trip, and John had happily taken him up on it. Leaning back against the dark blue of the seat and headrest, the doctor listened to the sounds around him. Various mechanical noises, the hum of the air turning on, low chatter in this section, and until the curtains were pulled between the sections a good deal of louder speech floating forward from areas behind. 

The announcement that they were cleared for takeoff startled him awake. He did not resist the temptation to slide into the seat by the window to watch as the plane taxied in a variety of patterns to reach their runway. John was not particularly excited about flying, but it was a distraction from thinking about Irene Adler, and the purpose behind this little jaunt.

No. John refused to think about this right now, or until he reached the destination. Otherwise, he was going to drive himself into a frenzy of anxiety. Irene was like Sherlock, and any plans he made beforehand were guaranteed to be read as soon as he was face to face. 

The carts came out, rattling ahead of cheerful attendants, and John moved back to the aisle seat, which was surprisingly less claustrophobic. He had a cocktail - as he didn’t really trust the beer. Then a moderately good dinner. John’s tastes were simple enough. It wasn’t until the lights had been dimmed as they flew over the North Atlantic that the child in the seat across the aisle spoke to him.

“Someone is watching you, you know,” came a clear voice to his right. 

He examined the child. Long brown hair, braided, dark skin, and serious eyes examined him back. “I beg your pardon?” he responded.

“There’s a man,” the girl told him, “He has visited the loo twice since we took off, and he keeps watching you while he’s in line.”

Mycroft’s men wouldn’t be so obvious, John thought. “Is he very tall?” he asked. He didn’t think that Sherlock would have been surveilling him, but it was not completely outside of possibility.

“No. I think he would be shorter than you are,” she said decidedly. “He’s wearing a sweatshirt, and he’s got the hoodie pulled up over his hair. It’s not *that* cold. He’s very sloppy.”

“I agree,” John said, “that does sound very sloppy.”

“Are you a spy?” she asked him.

John smiled, “No. I’m mostly a doctor. And not a very exciting doctor either. Sometimes I’m a writer too.”

“I don’t think he’s a fan,” she told him, “He doesn’t have that look of ‘oh my, there’s my favorite writer’ about him.”

“Probably not,” John said, “I write a blog, and I don’t expect too many people would know about it.”

“I’m going to be a writer,” she said confidently, “And then everyone will know about my books.”

“What do you like to write?” he asked, his eyes flicking over her head to see how her family were taking this discussion.

“Don’t worry about them,” she told him, “They’re used to me talking to people. Also, they’re asleep because they get air sick. So they took acetazolamide." She stumbled just the least little bit over the word.

John gave her smile, “Good attention to detail. One of the best things you need when you’re writing.”

She brightened, “I’m writing a murder mystery, and that’s one of the red herrings! It’s going to be a mystery about transported dinosaur bones, and someone gets killed when they discover their secret!”

“Don’t tell me the secret,” John told her, “I’ll read it when the book comes out and see if I can guess!”

“I always can guess,” she said, “and that’s why I’m going to write my own stories. So there will be books like what I want to read.”

“My husband can always guess too. Sometimes he can tell from the first page of the book. Remind me to give you my card at the end of the flight, and you can let me know when your books are published,” John told her. “I’m not going to ask your name, because it’s really not good to share that with strangers.”

“I know that,” she told him loftily. “I’m going to have a pen name.”

At John’s nod she continued, “Of course I don’t know what it will be yet. So if you give me your card, that’s good.”

“Excellent! I’m going to get some sleep now. You might want to as well. Otherwise you’ll be very tired tomorrow, or whenever they wake us up for breakfast.” John was not looking forward to jet lag.

She gave a decided nod. The conversation having ended, she went back to her iPad, and left John to his sleep. 

Hours later, after their breakfast, the girl caught his attention again. “Pssst!”

“Yes?” he raised his eyebrow at her.

“That’s the hoodie man, back by the loo. He’s peeking through the crack in the curtain.”

John stretched and put his tray up. “Thanks,” he told her, as he unbuckled, slipped out of the seat, and strode as briskly as he could back to the restrooms. 

There was a queue, but not much of one, so Dr. John Watson was able to observe his watcher from two places back. Not a young man, so the hoodie didn’t really suit him. Sherlock would, of course, have inferred and deduced everything about him. All John could see was that he was slightly overweight, greasy blond hair sticking out of the hoodie, with some rosacea, and a squint. What should he call him? The Hoodie? Hoodie man? The man suddenly developed an interest in the written instructions posted on the wall between the loos. 

John snagged the compartment next to the not-really-good-at-spyingish individual. If he’d have been Sherlock he’d have been able to pick the man’s pocket, but as it was John managed his personal business and washing his hands in time to bump into the man on his way out. “Sorry, mate,” John said cheerfully, “cramped quarters, yeah?”

The Hoodie man grunted at him, looking away, and stomped back along the aisle toward the back, swaying a bit as he went.

John had at least gotten a good look at him. That was something. He said, “Thanks!” to the girl as he re-took his seat.

“No problem,” he could see her smile as she flicked to the next page on her tablet.

When they got to Winnipeg, John gave her one of his business cards. Not the Holmes Watson Investigations, but Dr. John H. Watson, though it did have his blog address on it. “Thanks again. I enjoyed talking to you! Let me know when you’re published, and I look forward to reading your books!”

That got a big smile. Then John shouldered his carry-on, and made his way along the jet bridge with a purposeful stride. On with the mission.


	4. Next Leg

Winnipeg Richardson International Airport. It had a longer name, of course. John thought he’d take a page from Sherlock’s book and not worry about that. His young friend and her family had hurried off - John assumed they were being met. The airport was extremely beige. Not in a horrific way, but it didn’t encourage John to remember much of it.

A message tapped out on the mobile he’d received from Mycroft. The Uber driver’s description and the car’s license. Stepping out into the fresh air, John wondered about his brother-in-law’s fetish with black vehicles. The driver was chatty - self-described - which John figured was some form of punishment or joke from the man sending him to Canada in the first place.

Glancing at him, the chatty driver said, “CSIS picked up your hoody friend, and a few more. We’ll be trading vehicles. They’ll have info on your next stop in the next car.”

“I don’t know whether I should marvel at the smoothness with which this is occurring, or be terrified,” John commented.

“This is nothing. I arrived in a blizzard,” the driver said. And proceeded to tell John the tale of an apocalyptic snowstorm, the Royal Mounted Police on snowmobiles, and a can of maple syrup.

“How much of that is true?” John laughed.

“I swear! On my mother’s grave,” he was told.

“So, where does your mother live, then?” John asked him.

That got a belly laugh. “Nova Scotia, but I was born in the middle of a blizzard.”

In the next car, a silver sedan, the driver was less informative, and even less entertaining. John received a key card, and a folder when the car stopped in front of a small, modern house. Grabbing his overnight from the backseat, and his satchel from the trunk, he was left standing alone in the drive. “I’m not used to being alone anymore,” the doctor said outloud.

The keycard opened the lock with a thunk, and John pushed the solid wooden door open. Grapefruit cleaning solution, his nose told him. Every room was tidy, though the space did look lived in. It was not, however, strewn with books, toys, experiments or skulls. 

Exploring, John found a Toyota Corolla waiting in the garage. The bright blue of the car was dulled by use, and needed a wash. The refrigerator and freezer were filled with microwaveable meals. In the folder John found the password to the wi-fi, and an address for tomorrow.

“Hey,” he said when his spouse answered the Skype call, “It’s too neat here. I don’t know how i’ll stand it.”

“Obviously you’ll have to get back on the plane and fly straight to London. Neatness in Canada! What will happen to you next?” Sherlock drawled from his sprawl on the couch.

“It’s what? Three there?” John settled on the couch with his plate of red covered pasta.

“Really, John! Is that why you called me? To find out the time?” Sherlock waved his wristwatched arm toward the screen.”

John took a slurping bite of pasta. “I called to annoy you. So you wouldn’t forget what it was like to have me home. I knew you wouldn’t be sleeping.”

“As if I would forget. Mind Palace, John.” Sherlock lifted an eyebrow before continuing, “And you’ll want to know that Siger, Rosalind and Miranda all can fit in the bathtub together this evening.”

“Siger didn’t demand older brother privilege?” John asked, putting the plate of bland pasta down on the side table.

“Not as such,” his spouse told him. “He decided that it was his responsibility to take charge of bathtime, since you aren’t home.”

“Tell him I said ‘thank you’, please.”

Sherlock Holmes nodded. “Tell me about the people on your flight.”

John settled down, socked feet on the couch, and laptop on his own stomach, to detail the flight and who he’d met, the hoody man, the young writer, and which of his fellow flyers John thought were Mycroft’s agents. It wasn’t quite like being at home, but it would have to do for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I currently do not have a working computer, so my apologies for the delay. Someday Microsoft will send me the charger they have promised. Some. Day.


End file.
